


Lies

by Reaping



Series: Artsy April [17]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Brief mentions of panic attacks, Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-breakup, Stiles POV, Unhappy Ending, breaking up, brief mentions of drinking, canon compliant through season four, healing (sort of but not really), open/ambiguous ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-02
Packaged: 2018-06-05 20:11:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6721627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reaping/pseuds/Reaping
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>April 28th Prompt: Alone</p><p>He feels a flash of guilt, sends out a skype call request, and feels only the barest hint of shame when the request goes unanswered, tempered by the relief flooding his system.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **This fic does not have a happy ending. DO NOT EXPECT ONE TO APPEAR.** I just want to make this super clear before you go forward because this is not happy, it is very angsty, and it does not end on a happy note. Like, there's very little that might make anyone happy at any point in this.
> 
> This is a companion piece to [Ghosts](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5317871). You don't necessarily have to read that to get this (everything that happens there is pretty heavily implied here), but it would probably help to make sense of what's happening here. This is that story, from Stiles' perspective, and starting just a bit further into it.
> 
> And our regularly scheduled notes for the Artsy April Prompts:
> 
> I'm doing a lovely challenge with some friends called Artsy April. They'll be doing art, but since I cannot draw or paint or sculpt or do basically anything art-related to save my life, I'm doing a daily fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> If I missed tags let me know. Concrit is always welcome and appreciated.

“Fuck! FUCK! I’m so fucking stupid. God, I should’ve known. So stupid.” His fingers tangled roughly in his hair, catching and tugging on the strands as he paced the length of his room. He’d barely made it out before he started to break down completely – isn’t even sure how he managed to pull himself together long enough to get home. His feet stumbled over something and he went sprawling, elbow cracking against the bedframe, causing him to yell out again before giving in to the thrumming pain inside his chest, tears slipping free as he curled in on himself. He laid on the floor sobbing until his energy was spent, body weak and barely responsive as he crawled onto the bed, dropping heavily on the mattress, feebly kicking his shoes off before rolling over and closing his eyes. Sleep was evasive, but eventually the emotional drain took enough of a toll that he drifted off, mind filled with shadows and death, hurt and pain following him into the darkness.

He dreams of caressing hands, fingertips that suddenly sprout claws that tear into his chest, flesh rending, bone cracking. He thrashes himself awake, chest heaving, fresh tears flowing down his face. He thinks for a moment it was all part of the same horrible nightmare. But it wasn’t, because somewhere deep inside he’d always known. He wasn’t the one people stayed with. He wasn’t even the one people wanted for a night most of the time. He catches the flash of the message light on his cell, reaches a trembling hand over to pick it up, nerves tripping through his pulse until he unlocks the phone, sees it’s only Scott, asking if he’d finished up with his happy reunion yet so they could hang out. His laugh is watery, broken sounding, his fingers dialing before he can stop himself.

“Stiles! Safe for me to head out now? I’ve missed you man.” His mouth opens to answer and instead a sob echoes out. “Stiles? Stiles are you ok? Dude? Did something happen?” Scott’s voice is more frantic with each question and Stiles can’t really blame him, because sounds like this…usually somebody is dying. Nobody is this time, it just feels like it. He swallows against the tightness in his throat, manages to croak out a response.

“No happy reunion. It was a lie, everything. He never – it was a lie. I…I need to go.” The phone drops from his limp fingers after he ends the call, body twisting back until he’s curled up again. He watches the day fade from his room, the light on the walls disappearing as night falls. Tears run quietly down his face, the only evidence he’s still aware of anything at all. The noise of his window sliding open makes him flinch, the silence finally broken. Feet thud into the carpet and move towards him, but he can’t turn. A hand presses gently into his shoulder, warmth creeping into his chilled skin.

“Stiles, I’m so sorry.”

“I know, me too.” It’s a whisper, his throat so dry he can barely swallow. He feels the dip as the other man climbs into the bed, hears the soft thumps as shoes are kicked off, leans backwards as arms wrap around him, holding him tight. “Scott…” he can’t finish, the sobs wracking through him again, body jerking with the force of them. Scott just holds him tighter, whispering soothing words into his skin, his own eyes moistening as he tries to stop his brother from shattering apart. Eventually the sobs trail off to stuttered breaths, exhaustion winning out. He falls asleep, hollow ache radiating through his body. Scott stays awake keeping watch, afraid to leave or even drift off. He hasn’t seen Stiles this broken since Claudia died, didn’t want to ever see him like this again. He wants to wake him, tell him that the lies were a lie, but he can’t, because it would only hurt Stiles more in the long run – he knows that if Derek was willing to do this once, he’d do it again without hesitation, and he won’t put Stiles through that. Won’t abuse his power as the alpha to force Derek into the truth because Stiles wouldn’t believe that either. So he does what he can, holding him through the night, soothing him with quiet words when the nightmares try to take hold.

 

**

 

Stiles is packed to return to school by the time John gets home the next morning, the confusion evident on his face. Scott pulls him aside, explaining quietly what had happened, trying to spare Stiles from reliving it already today – although if the haunted look in his eyes is anything to go by, that’s all Stiles has been doing from the moment he woke. Anger flashes in John’s eyes, his fists clenching, but Scott shakes his head and nods towards the back door, watches as the sheriff’s eyes widen in disbelief, his own head shaking as he takes in the rest of the information before making him promise to keep it to himself, for Stiles’ sake, though he makes his displeasure about this known. He wraps his son in his arms when he goes back inside, hand gripping the back of his neck as he presses a gentle kiss into Stiles’ temple with a whispered ‘I love you’. He feels the movement as Stiles nods at him, can hear the clicking in his throat as he swallows. He pulls back, watches as Stiles opens and closes his mouth, trying to find some words, his eyes glazing over, and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder, squeezing briefly.

“It’s okay; I’ll come up in a few days.” Stiles’ mouth snaps shut, his head bobbing up and down frantically as he grabs his bags, the few things he’d forgotten when he moved ready to go this time. Scott picks up the last  one so Stiles won’t have to make two trips to the Jeep, follows his friend outside, lips twitching up at the side in a crooked smile, barely there and gone in the face of the misery radiating off of the other man.

“See you soon okay?”

“Sure.” There’s no skip, but Scott worries it’s a lie anyhow, darting forward to envelope Stiles in a tight hug, not the least bit reassured when Stiles’ arms wrap around him and squeeze back, forehead gently knocking into his own.  “Bye.” There’s the hint of a sob in there, and Scott wants to stop him, make him stay, tell him things will get better, that it isn’t as bad as Stiles thinks, but he lets him go. He lets him go and he regrets it the second he does, worry slicing through him, only slightly mollified when the sheriff calls much later that night to let him know Stiles made it back to Berkley safely.

 

**

 

Thanksgiving is coming and Stiles has what feels like his millionth panic attack since returning to school when he starts thinking about going back to Beacon Hills for it. He’s fumbled his phone out of his pocked and called his father before he even knows what he’s done. It takes John longer than it should to talk him down, get him listening. He tells Stiles that he took a few days off, he’d planned to come down, they could find a nice diner that offered a turkey dinner, Stiles could show him around campus. The panic fades, a small bit of happiness creeping into it’s place – he can’t remember the last time his dad was actually home for the holiday, let alone willing and able to take more than one day off to spend with him. He starts researching diners in the area as soon as he hangs up, mind happy to be occupied. He thinks he’s found the right one when his phone dings with an incoming message.

**_Scott:_ ** _Hey man, coming home for turkey day? The pack is all coming in – they all say they haven’t heard from you in awhile._

**_Stiles:_ ** _Dad’s coming down here, sorry! I’ll text them soon._

He doesn’t mean for it to be a lie, but he doesn’t have anything to say to them. Not even Lydia, who knew when things went south on him. She’d told him she would stand on his side, that she knew what happened when someone turned out not to be who you thought they were. Except she didn’t, not really, because there she was in Boston, Jackson at her side. As much as it hurt him to watch, he saw the proof that what those two shared was real when she saved the other man just by loving him. He swallows against the memories, closing his messages and calling the diner to find out if they’d be open on Thursday.

 

**

 

It’s easier to decide not to return home for winter break and the holidays. He got a job at the campus library, and they needed help over the break – they’d be open nearly every day but most of the student employees were going home for the holidays. Stiles assured them it wouldn’t be a problem for him to stay, letting his dad know. John was planning to fly in midday on Christmas Eve and stay through to the day after Christmas, Jordan and the other deputies offering to help cover so he could see his son for Christmas. They’d also helped chip in for a hotel room – nothing grand, but a decent place with two beds so father and son could actually be together for the two and a half days. Stiles sent them a note in thanks, a hand-made gift card shoved inside telling them to enjoy a few rounds on him (along with the cash to cover a decent bar tab). The extra hours at work would make up for the small dent he put in the savings he’d started.

The few days with his dad are nice – they talk about school and work, about the deputies and his dad’s budding courtship of Melissa. They even talk a little about Scott, although it’s mostly the sheriff doing the talking on that front for once, Stiles’ contact with his friend having fallen off as the semester got busy (at least, that’s what he’s telling himself the reason is). He’s a little sad when his dad leaves, but not the least bit homesick. He feels…free. It’s a strange feeling, and he’s not sure he trusts it, but he’s learned it’s better not to poke at things. He’d rather be functioning with foreign feelings than be the broken shell he was when he returned to school. He shakes off the thoughts trying to claw their way to the surface and goes for a run instead, the crisp air helping to clear his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Spring was brisk on the coast, and Stiles thought briefly about going home, seeing his father and Scott, feeling the edges of panic trying to slip in, and he let it go. He hadn’t had an attack since New Year’s Day, didn’t want to have one now if he could stop it before it got a hold on him. The library was an excuse, but a poor one – not as many students travelling home, less hours to occupy him, keep him from dwelling in his thoughts. His roommate brings up Cabo – tells Stiles it’s definitely the premiere place to party away the stress of midterms. He looks at his savings, at the passport he got just to have, not ever believing he’d use it, and decides… _fuck it_. He’s young; he should have fun, make mistakes – the kinds that don’t end with someone dead. And Brian was actually a pretty decent person to hang out with. Stiles missed it at the beginning of the year – first because he was too homesick to really enjoy himself, and then…and then. He’s pretty sure Brian has some idea that something happened after that first trip home, even if Stiles didn’t realize that the other man had started spending more time in the room with him at first. They’ve never talked about it – Brian never asked, Stiles never volunteered – but he had a knack for drawing Stiles out of his thoughts, getting him to leave the room on his days off. He was the one who suggested the library job, and also who got Stiles into running, mentioning once or twice that it helped him get out of his head, let go of the day’s stresses. He’d even managed to drag Stiles out to a party or two, subscribing to the notion that they could keep each other out of trouble. He was a good guy, would be fun to go on a trip with.

They end up rooming with two other guys from their floor – first ones in the room claiming the beds each night, finding somewhere else to take any hookups. The days are filled with sun and sand and liquor; parties on the beach, at the pool, in the hallways. They avoid trouble somewhat miraculously, nobody in their small group getting arrested (although they see some spectacular takedowns as they wander from party spot to party spot). Stiles doesn’t think of home once. The friendship sticks when they get back to campus, and it’s not hard at all to decide to find a house to share when the semester ends and summer comes blazing in (well…blazing some days, freezing others – the northern coastal weather is fickle). They find a place that’s a little rundown and get a deal on the rent if they agree to help the landlady fix it up – she’s older and has lived there since Berkley’s heyday as a hippie hotspot. She’s sweet, treats them like their her grandkids, and the spend the summer working on the house in between their real work shifts, having barbeques with some of their classmates who also decided to stay in town for the break. Stiles talks to his dad several times a week, but it doesn’t hit him until August that he hasn’t spoken to Scott in months. He feels a flash of guilt, sends out a skype call request, and feels only the barest hint of shame when the request goes unanswered, tempered by the relief flooding his system.

Scott will always be his brother, but he doesn’t know how to relate to him anymore – his life is so painfully normal, and a part of him doesn’t want to talk to Scott, to risk being drawn back into a world where he wonders every day if today is the day he’s going to lose someone he loves, or maybe it’s the day he’ll be too slow, too human, and lose his own life. He clears the request out and leaves his phone in his room, going downstairs see what everyone wants to do for dinner – knowing someone will have some sort of plan for them all. When he finally gets home for the night, he sees several missed calls and skype requests, only hesitating for a minute before clearing them all out.

 

**

 

The letter of acceptance comes at the start of his final semester at Berkley. He’d applied to several schools for his Masters but this one is the one he’d had the best shot at a full ride at. He called his dad, a little guilty that he’d be moving even further away, but happy to get into the program he wanted. He promised to bring the rest of Stiles’ things (including the Jeep, which he’d had to send home after his third year – the engine finally needed to be replaced, so his dad had towed it back home for him, making sure the mechanic who worked on it didn’t overcharge) when he came up for graduation in a couple of months. The unsaid “so you don’t have to come back here” was implied. He was grateful. Life was good now, his friendships built on a solid foundation of liking one another, not being thrown together in the face of a crisis. Every once in awhile he’d wake in the night, the ghosts from his past swirling around him in the darkness, but it was easier every time to shake them back off.

When graduation came, Stiles was surprised to see Scott there, even more surprised that he was happy for it, even if they’d barely spoken in the last year. The smile on his friend’s face was genuine, his voice filled with sincerity when he told Stiles how proud he was of him, how awesome that he graduated Summa cum Laude. He didn’t ask when Stiles planned to come back – didn’t mention Beacon Hills or the pack at all. Scott joined him and his father for dinner, grabbing the check and smiling as he explained he’d passed his vet test and was now a board certified Doctor of Veterinary Medicine.

“And don’t think I’m not going to be using ‘Dr. McCall’ as much as possible.” It was said on a laugh, John and Stiles joining in, the easy feeling of family they shared coming back with each minute they spent together. It lasted a few days – right up until John was gone and Stiles was nearly packed for the trip further south, a job already waiting for Stiles at UC Irvine’s psychiatric services department (the same school he’d be attending come August).

“Stiles, um, you could come back sometime. To visit. Most of the pack is moving home.”

“Scott…” He tried to keep his voice level, firm enough to stop the discussion, but despite the growing up Scott had done, he still seemed to miss those important social cues telling him to shut up.

“You’re still pack, and we miss you. Things are better now. And Der–”

“DON’T!” His tone was harsh, voice rough. He’d buried most of it under years of better things, new memories blurring the old, but _that name_ was threatening to bring it all bubbling back up. His chest expanded, the exhale noisy as he got himself under control. “Just…stop. I’m not coming back. Not now. Not ever. I’m sorry.” And he felt the uptick in his heart at the end, knew Scott heard it by the expression on his face, because he _wasn’t_ sorry. Not really. He was relieved that he didn’t have to go back, that he had two years in Irvine, probably more because he planned to go after his doctorate too. And then he’d find a job that kept him away, only feeling a little guilt at the thought of leaving his father in that town. But John was getting closer to retirement age, would probably be willing to move if Stiles asked – so it was likely he wouldn’t ever have to go back. Not if he didn’t want to, and right now, he was pretty sure he never would.

“Okay.” He could hear the resignation in Scott’s voice, his jaw clenching against the urge to apologize again, because it still wouldn’t be true – he didn’t feel bad for not wanting to go back. There was nothing happy there for him anymore. They finished loading the moving truck, went to a very tense dinner, and then Scott made up an excuse for why he suddenly couldn’t stay until morning. Stiles let him because he understood. The hug broke his heart a little, because it felt like a forever kind of goodbye, and it probably was.

 

 

**

 

It’s the spring semester of his first year in the Master’s program for Criminal Psychology; he’s out with some of the other grad students, dinner to celebrate making it through midterms, when he gets the text. He’s changed phones a few times over the last four years, deleting numbers with each shift, people he doesn’t keep in contact with. The number attached to the text doesn’t have a name, isn’t in his contacts list, but he recognizes it anyway. He opens the message with trembling fingers, eyes burning as he fights to keep from crying.

**_916-834-9920:_ ** _I’m sorry. I love you. Come home._

He swallows against the lump in his throat, waving off Jan, who probably noticed his sudden shift in mood while he was focusing on the phone in his hand (damned psych students noticed everything). He rereads the message and gives the only response he can think of to stop further contact, tucking his phone away and pasting a smile on his face as he goes back to the conversation swirling around him.

**_Stiles:_ ** _Who is this?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I'm sorry for that. Not really, because it was rattling around in me and I needed to let it out before it devoured me with it's sadness, but like, a little sorry. I cried a lot while writing this, so some very selfish part of me kinda hopes someone else cries about it with me.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://jennthereaper.tumblr.com) if you promise not to murder me for this.


End file.
